First Class: Culinary Cluelessness
by TaliesinTaleweaver
Summary: Set during the early days of the X-Men, a teenage Bobby Drake attempts to cook a full dinner. By himself. Be afraid. Be very, very afraid.


Professor Xavier looked at the teenagers staring at him, disbelievingly.

"We have to _cook_?" Warren gasped. "That's what you hire chefs for."

"It's a basic survival skill that all of you will almost certainly need sometime in your lives."

"I'll invent a robot to cook for me," Hank countered.

"Cooking isn't a survival skill; there's a McDonald's on every corner," Slim pointed out.

"It's _sissy_ stuff," Bobby protested.

"I already know how to cook," Jean said. "Can't I do something else?"

Professor Xavier fixed a glare around the room generally. "All of you will do it. It is _not_ optional. Each of you will make dinner one night this week. There is a stack of cookbooks if you need help and you may not coax, blackmail, or threaten Hannah to do the cooking for you because she has this week off and isn't here. There must be at least an entree, vegetable, and one other dish, plus dessert. Bobby, you have tonight."

Okay, so cooking couldn't be so hard, right? People did it all the time. Bobby frowned at the cookbook he'd picked up. Scratch that, cooking _could_ be hard. He had looked through almost the whole book and didn't even know what half the terms meant. What on earth was 'al dente'? Paté? Consomme?

In frustration, Bobby dropped the book and tried another one. This one at least was written in English, not chefese. There was Italian meatloaf—nah, too complicated. Ditto for the 'Linda's Lasagna'. Honey-lime enchiladas, no. The chicken casserole looked like a possibility—until Bobby saw that it required about fifteen googol steps. He paused briefly to blame Hank for the fact that he had even _thought_ the word 'googol', then noticed the baked chicken. It looked easy enough. So chicken it would be. As for the vegetable. . .Bobby looked through the refrigerator and freezer for ideas. Ah hah! Corn was a vegetable, wasn't it? Bobby could vaguely remember something about someone saying sometime about tomatoes and corn being fruit and grain, respectively. Whatever. It was close enough. Corn from the frozen bag it would be, with—ah! mashed potatoes.

There you go. Simple enough.

Fifteen minutes later Bobby had dumped six chicken breasts in a pan and was busy measuring out the other ingredients. A cup of diced onions? Diced? It required fifteen minutes of digging, mostly in the wrong books, before Bobby discovered that 'diced' meant 'cut up really small so you don't bite into a whopping big piece of onion and start tearing in your food'. There, that was straightforward, easy, why couldn't the dude who wrote the cookbook have said that in the first place?

It was only then that Bobby realized that he didn't know what size cup he was supposed to be putting the onion in. A wineglass? A mug? A shot glass? He guessed it had to be a medium sized one, so he grabbed the nearest glass and went to work, chopping lustily though not very well.

He hated onions.

_I _really_hate onions_, he thought two minutes later as he rubbed his burning eyes. Nobody had told him they were lethal weapons. They ranked right up there with homework, curfew, and unrest in the Middle-East as Things That Shouldn't Be. What idiot had pulled one of these things out of the ground, bit into it, and, tears streaming from his eyes, declared that it was edible and nonpoisonous?

Finally, Bobby filled the glass and started on the green peppers, which were called for in an equal amount as the onion. Upon cutting the first pepper open, he discovered that it had millions of tiny seeds. He wondered if they were edible. He stuck a few in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and decided that they were. Great, so he wouldn't have to try and scoop them out. He mutilated them as he had the onions and set them both aside, then moved onto the next step.

Basil seasoning and crushed pepper. Two teaspoons of each. Bobby opened the silverware drawer. There were two sizes of spoons: big and little. He wondered which he was supposed to be using. The little ones were the ones he never actually used in real life because you couldn't get enough food on them for a proper mouthful. So he chose a big one.

Bobby poured pepper onto the spoon, dumped it into a bowl, and measured out another one. This one heaped up and spilled into the bowl a bit, but he didn't worry about it. It wasn't _that_ much extra. He did the same with the basil seasoning. He filled his measuring glass a quarter full with olive oil, and he was done with the chicken. All he had to do was put everything in the pan and pop it in the oven. He poured the oil on the chicken, then sprinkled the seasonings and vegetables mostly evenly.

He stuck the pan in the oven and leaned back to congratulate himself on a job well-done. Only then did he realize that he had forgotten to turn the oven on. He did so, then got the recipe for mashed potatoes. He chucked the potatoes in a pot, filled the pot with water and put it on the stove. Now what? Oh yes, the corn. He grabbed a bag of frozen corn and ripped it open. The tear, instead of going straight across the top, raced down diagonally and separated the bag into two halves, corn flying across the kitchen and skittering over the floor. Bobby sighed. He got another bag and this time used the tool that was the epitome of sissyhood: scissors. Bobby could count on one hand the number of the times he'd ever used scissors in his life. If he couldn't rip it or bit it, chances were scissors wouldn't make much of a dent either and he got a saw. But this was the last bag of corn; he couldn't afford another mistake.

He successfully got the corn into a pot, put some water in, and stuck it on the stove. Now for the meal's crowning glory. He took one of the two cartons of Ben and Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk from the freezer and set six wineglasses on the counter. He scooped ice cream into each glass, then molded it carefully, using ice as necessary to brace it. Then they went back to the freezer to await Their Destiny.

That's when he noticed that the potatoes had boiled over and hot water was exploding in all directions. Bobby froze the water, gave it a second to come crashing to the floor, then gingerly stepped over to see exactly how big the disaster was. Surprisingly, it didn't seem too bad. The potatoes were mostly okay. One was slightly burnt on the bottom, but he could pull that part off. He took them out of the pot, pulled the skins off, and tossed them in a bowl. He knew how to mash potatoes. Hank was always lifting the potato masher for whatever bizarre experiment the mad scientist was engrossed in, and thus Hannah was always rounding up one of the boys, handing them a fork, and telling them to get busy. So Bobby didn't know how to use a potato masher, but he could get excellent results with a fork. He finished up, added some milk, butter and salt, and set it aside.

Then dark smoke began billowing from the oven. Actually, it had been coming out for several minutes now, but Bobby hadn't noticed. In a panic, he yanked the door open and grabbed the chicken.

The oven was _hot_. Bobby dropped the pan on the stove and yanked his hand away, yelping, and iced it up. Only then, looking down at the blisters already starting to form, did Bobby remember the existence of oven mitts.

The pan had broken when he'd dropped it on the stove and oil was leaking across the stove. It reached the flame under the corn and the fire whooshed into the air, gaining at least two feet. Bobby was beginning to hate fire, ovens, and anything remotely connected to inordinate heat. He froze the fire, then sagged back against the counter to rest for a moment before seeing if the chicken was salvageable. Bobby decided that it was, particularly since it was nearly dinner time and he simply couldn't make anything else to replace them. He scraped as much burnt off as he could, then dumped them onto plates. He added some corn, which was only lukewarm but he wasn't turning the fire on again, and mashed potatoes, then took them to the table.

"Dinner!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Robert, that's what the dinner bell is for, Professor Xavier told him sternly.

Slim used his fork to poke at the brownish-black lump on his plate. He believed it was supposed to be chicken, although week-old hamburger, decayed pork, and solidified vomit were all definite possibilities. He pulled a piece off and put it in his mouth.

Across the table, Jean had just done the same thing. She gagged and ran for the bathroom. Slim heard retching sounds. He shrugged and chewed. It was bad. It was really bad. He swallowed, eyes tearing from excessive pepper, and snagged another bite, chewing this one carefully amid the hacking and wheezing coming from his dinner companions. Yes, it was certainly chicken, or at least had been before Bobby got his hands on it. He loaded some potatoes on his fork and stuck it in his mouth. They were actually good. Not just palatable, but good. To be honest, Slim hadn't expected that much.

He felt eyes on himself and looked up. Everyone, including Jean who had returned from what she called the 'powder room', was staring at him.

"How can you eat that?" Warren demanded, eyes red and cheeks wet.

Slim shrugged. "I put some on my fork, I open my mouth, I shut my mouth, I chew, I swallow. It's simple, really. The potatoes are good, by the way, Bobby."

Bobby beamed. Everyone else had looks of trepidation on their faces.

Slim forked up some corn and continued eating, aware that he was the only one doing so. Not even Professor Xavier was making more than a token effort at pretending to eat.

"Although I must say, Bobby, that I wouldn't suggest a career as a chef for you."

Hank was staring at Slim. "Have you ever had food not even you could stomach?"

Slim thought for a moment. "No, I don't think so. Oh wait, one time I tried to eat a hamburger that had green fuzz growing on the side. That didn't go so well."

"Well, not even I am going to eat this," Bobby announced. "On the plus side, I probably won't ever have to cook a meal again. Right, Prof?"

Professor Xavier said nothing.

"How about dessert?" Bobby said. Except for Slim, who was busy finishing the food on his plate, everyone looked like they'd rather be drawn and quartered.

"Um, that's okay," Jean said quickly. "It was a great try, Bobby, but I think we're good."

Bobby frowned. "Well, I'll get it anyway." He jumped up from the table and brought back ice cream in wineglasses.

"Pure Ben and Jerry's," he said, setting down. "Honestly, I did nothing to them."

Jean picked one up and took a tentative bit. A look of bliss crossed her face and she scooped out a great spoonful. After witnessing her reaction, there was a mad scramble for the ice cream. Slim snagged the last one and downed it in three mouthfuls.

Jean ran into the kitchen and came back with a full carton. Five pairs of eyes locked on the blue and black container. Jean hugged it to her chest. "Nope. This is all mine." She opened it and dug in.

Warren lunged across the table and tried to grab it from her. Jean levitated it into the air, out of his reach, and telekinetically sent her spoon up to it, filled it, and brought it down to her mouth.

"I have wings," Warren said threateningly.

"I can evade those," Jean answered calmly, taking another bite.

Slim could tell that Hank was calculating the distance from the table the ice cream and wondering if he could jump the distance. He tried, and would have made it, but Jean shot the carton across the room, where it danced invitingly at ceiling height.

Bobby tried to intercept the spoon as it drifted toward Jean, sending a stream of ice to grab it. The spoon skipped out of his reach and came to rest in Jean's hand.

"I told you, this is mine," Jean said.

Slim knocked the carton down with his optic beam and dove across the room to catch it before it spilled on the floor.

"Slim!" Jean squawked indignantly.

Slim gave her an innocent look. "What?"

He sighed, then relented, vaguely displeased with the fact that Jean could make him do anything. "Fine. You can have half." He scooped part of the ice cream onto his plate, then handed her back the carton.

Jean looked around at Hank, Warren, Bobby, and Professor Xavier, who was too dignified to fight over ice cream.

"Okay, fine." She took a serving, levitated it to the Professor, then said, "Ready?"

The boys nodded. She tossed it in the air and watched them collide in midair in their eagerness to get the carton.

"It's like a football game," Slim observed a second later. Hank came up with the carton and was about to retreat to safety with it when Warren, flying fast and low, snatched it from him and shot up to the ceiling. Bobby made an ice slide to him and grabbed the carton for himself. Hank and Warren dog piled him, limbs sticking out in all directions. A hand came up from the pile clutching the ice cream, but another had took it and it disappeared under the bodies.

"The amazing thing is that they haven't spilt it," Jean said, impressed.

Finally, Bobby emerged victorious. Holding the carton to his chest, he scrambled across the floor, shot under the table, and began downing the prize before Hank and Warren realized he and it were missing. By the time they did, it was too late. The ice cream was devoured.

"That was excellent," Slim said to Bobby. "Dinner and a show."

"See, I can make dinner," Bobby said, crawling from under the table and wiping ice cream from his hair. "I can even make it entertaining."


End file.
